


The Art Of Taking Requests

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Come Marking, Embarrassment, Humiliation, Kink Meme, M/M, Possessive Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Aziraphale makes a very simple request, and Crowley indulges him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 67
Kudos: 744
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Top Aziraphale Recs





	The Art Of Taking Requests

Crowley has never objected to the angel putting him on his knees. No matter how much Aziraphale seems to enjoy using the position to force compliments on him, to indulge in his need to praise him, and pet him gently, when he can't turn his head away, or protest the words, or pretend the red flush climbing his face isn't obvious. He can't do a single thing but moan and dig his fingers into the angel's hips, mouth too full of his cock to say a word.

"You're so lovely like this," Aziraphale tells him. "So very lovely."

Crowley's already come, body still warm and sensitive, and the angel is thick in his mouth, stretching it pleasantly at the edges and heavy on his tongue, nudging into his slick throat over and over. He loves this about the angel, the way he never knows whether he's going to get slow, indulgent slides into his mouth for half an age or more, or bare minutes of greedy, desperate, choking thrusts. Or, like today, a dizzying mixture of both. He doesn't need to breathe, and it's just a long stretch of time where Crowley is full of him, mouth and tongue shifting, throat squeezing.

Until the angel suddenly tangles a hand in his hair and tilts his head back, far enough that his cock slips free, falls wetly from Crowley's mouth on a gasp, trailing saliva. He gives a short noise of complaint, but his eyes are already lifting and focusing on the angel's. On that familiar, pale blue-grey that seems at the moment to be deciding how to ask for something. Crowley's never quite got around to learning how to refuse him.

But today Aziraphale seems to take his own initiative, the fingers in Crowley's hair tightening as he drops his other hand to wrap it around his dick, where Crowley has left him slick wet and flushed red. He watches, stomach tight and hot at the sight of it, while Aziraphale works himself in short, twisting slides, the head of his cock leaking steadily against the curl of his fingers. So close to his face that Crowley makes a cracked, desperate noise and pulls against Aziraphale's hold.

"Do it, angel, go on."

Aziraphale's next exhale is shaky, words bitten back with effort, and Crowley's pushed to the floor, back bare against the cold wood, legs splayed open, pinned there with one of Aziraphale's impossibly strong hands on his chest. The angel drops to kneel over him, hand still working. His intention is obvious and filthy, and Crowley can't find it in himself to protest. The thought of the angel losing it like that, braced over him, finding pleasure in the desecration of Crowley's skin. How could he possibly refuse.

"Come on, angel," he demands, because he's not going to pretend he doesn't want it. "Come on, make a mess of me."

Aziraphale gives a punched exhale and stills.

Crowley feels the first line of come hit his throat, then the middle of his chest, and a line straight through his nipple - and he's biting back a hiss as Aziraphale's hand slows, working himself carefully through the last of it, droplets falling to break the lines, leaving it to pool and run over his sternum, and the hard rolling edges of his ribs.

Aziraphale watches it happen, eyes wide, every breath shivery, and he's trembling gently, moaning his name, in a way that leaves Crowley twitching and whining under him. Until it's finished, and Crowley takes a heaving breath, chest warm and wet and obscene.

"Oh." The angel sounds stunned at the picture Crowley makes spread out beneath him. He releases himself with a soft noise, looks so desperate to touch the mess he's made on Crowley's skin. Which makes Crowley hiss approval, feeling it like an ache.

"Yes, go on, you know you want to," Crowley tells him - tempts him - because he wants to see what else Aziraphale will do, where else this new, greedy lust takes him. "You can do anything you want, anything."

The angel hums in reply, as if in agreement, and it's so perfectly like him that Crowley is surprised into a laugh. Which makes Aziraphale's mouth stretch into a smile, so easily, as if everything about Crowley thrills him. He grips Crowley's clean waist with a tacky hand, leans carefully down over him and kisses him, before pushing himself upright and disappearing from view with a little noise of amusement. It's only fair, Crowley supposes, he did distract the angel half way through inventory. 

He lays there for a minute, feigns a disgruntled noise at the swift abandonment, listening to the angel quietly re-dressing, feeling beautifully used and warm. Until Aziraphale reappears and catches his hand to help pull him upright, and Crowley pulls a disgusted face when he feels everything run down his skin, tacky and rapidly cooling.

He lifts a hand to snap himself clean - only to find his fingers covered, the movement stopped before he can finish it. 

"There's no need for that," Aziraphale says quietly, and slowly eases Crowley's hand back down, to his immediate confusion.

"What - did you want to, er, keep going?" Not that he'd object to that, he'd just assumed, since Aziraphale had put his trousers back, on that they were finished.

"Put your shirt on," Aziraphale tells him, still smiling at him in a way that seems eager and impatient, as if he has the best day planned for them.

For a second Crowley doesn't think he's heard him right.

"You - what?"

"I would like for you to put your clothes back on." Aziraphale makes a gesture, and Crowley's clothes are now in a neatly folded pile in his arms. It's pretty hard to misunderstand exactly what the angel wants at this point.

"You want me to put them on over this?" He gestures at himself, at the wet streaks running like spilled paint down his chest and neck, some of it now low enough to wet his pubic hair. Slowly drying to tacky unpleasantness.

Aziraphale nods. "Yes, if you would."

"Angel, I'm covered in it," Crowley protests, rather sensibly he thinks. "You've covered me in it, I'm a _mess_."

Aziraphale's eyes slip half shut. "I think you look perfectly lovely," he says.

Crowley's protest lodges in his throat at the suggestively filthy compliment. Because the more they do this the less resistant the angel is to being honest about what he wants. The more confident he is admitting to the things that he wants. But this is - this is not what he expected from Aziraphale.

"I can't just -" He breathes a disbelieving laugh. "You expect me to -"

"Yes," Aziraphale says again, as if he'd heard the entire thought. "You said I could have anything I want, and I want you to get dressed and come out to that cafe with the delicious strawberry gateau with me."

Crowley gapes at him, jaw working. It's not that the idea revolts him. It's nothing like that. The angel has never given the slightest indication that he would find something like this appealing. This quiet humiliation that's all but staking a claim on him. It's indulgent, and possessive, and degrading, and the idea that it's something Aziraphale wants leaves him a little stunned. The fact that Aziraphale doesn't want him to remove the evidence that they'd been together, that he'd marked him, that Crowley had let him, had _begged_ him to even.

Putting his clothes on over it and going somewhere with Aziraphale is going to be unbearable - for so many reasons.

"It's going to - through my shirt." Crowley swallows, throat a long ache of embarrassed realisation, body strangely tight and warm at the thought of doing this. He can taste the angel on the air every time he opens his mouth and he knows that it's because of him, it's all over him. How could everyone not notice?

"Then I suggest you wear your scarf _artfully_ ," Aziraphale tells him, voice firm now, as if he'd taken Crowley's complaint for negotiation rather than refusal. 

But there's a pleased relief to the angel too, as if he'd expected Crowley to protest. They've already talked about boundaries, and personal experiences, understanding that there were things their histories might make them unable to enjoy, even if they were willing to do them for each other. The assumption that they would always be willing to do them for each other pointedly noted and then set aside. Aziraphale wouldn't question it if he said no, of course, though he probably wouldn't suggest anything like it again. Which is unacceptable, because it's something the angel wants, more than he's willing to admit to, clearly. 

But Crowley hadn't expected something so possessive, so utterly filthy, so _obvious_.

He fumbles his shirt over his head, feeling it cling and dampen in tacky patches where the angel's come is still drying on his skin, where there's a trail of it on his throat that will undoubtedly show above his collar if anyone looks hard enough. Satan's fucking balls, he absolutely reeks of angel - of Aziraphale.

He squeezes his way into his jeans with a hiss, hands shaky on the belt while Aziraphale straightens his jacket and his bow tie, as if there's nothing unusual about his request at all.

Crowley swears as he attempts to sit his jacket and scarf in a way that covers as much as possible, but his shirt is a fucking v-neck and there's a messy line of come that forces him to change the fabric of the scarf while Aziraphale is fetching his keys. Luckily, the angel doesn't comment on it, simply opens the door and extends a hand to wave Crowley outside.

The walk to the cafe takes ten minutes, and Crowley has never been so aware of his own skin, of the way fabric pulls and catches where it's dried underneath, his hands are shoved in his pockets, body hunched tight inside his jacket, willing people on the street not to look at him so hard that at least one of them trips over nothing at all. Aziraphale won't stop talking, about the weather, about the roadworks that have made visiting his favourite Thai restaurant inconvenient, expressions animated and relaxed in a way that only ratchets Crowley's own shivery tension higher. Frustrated at how the angel can behave like everything is normal.

Aziraphale orders cake and tea for both of them, though Crowley has no intention of touching anything, fingers clenching too tightly on his own arms, knee jumping where he's sitting, waiting impatiently for Aziraphale to get back to their table. He keeps checking over his glasses, adjusting his scarf over the incriminating stains on his shirt, the collar of his jacket pulled up where his throat still feels tacky and obvious, though the streak that Aziraphale left there has long dried.

Aziraphale finally slips in the other side of the table he's claimed at the back, smiling like they'd simply gone out for a morning stroll. He takes far too long to stir his tea, eyes fixed on Crowley, taking his time, indulging, not looking away for a second. He's enjoying this, he's enjoying the thought of it, and Crowley is suddenly too warm and too tightly wound, too obvious, smelling like an angelic whorehouse.

Sweet fucking Satan.

He fidgets, desperately.

"You realise I'm a demon covered in angelic essence, and anyone with an ounce of supernatural talent is going to fucking know it." Crowley's never had it on his skin this long, there's an outside chance it will start to burn through him. 

Aziraphale lifts his tea, all prim eyebrows. He takes a sip and says nothing.

He _knows_ , of course he knows, that's the whole fucking point. The angel parading him around streaked with his come like Crowley's a thing that belongs to him, a thing he gets to use and leave messy and obviously his.

It's sinful and obscene. Someone is going to see, someone is going to know, and Crowley doesn't want anyone to know - _fuck, he wants everyone to know._

If they were human this would be mildly transgressive at best. But they're not human and their bodies tend to absorb their original nature, their ethereal and occult nature. If anyone were to show up now, anyone from above or below, it would be disgustingly obvious. They'd see it immediately, see it all over Crowley. They'd know what he'd let Aziraphale do to him, all the messy, visceral, human things that left him painted in raw fucking angel. Which sort of makes him want to curl up and die, but also makes him want to sit here in unbearable, humiliated arousal while Aziraphale smiles at him and eats his cake, looking so pleased, and watching Crowley like he's something amazing that he can't believe he gets to keep. He loves it and he hates it, and he's too jittery to deal with emotions that confusing.

He sinks in his chair, face red, hot with humiliation and twisting desperate arousal.

He watches Aziraphale finish his cake, order another piece, drink three cups of tea and have an excruciating conversation with the waitress about the varieties of muffin they offer. It's been almost an hour and he can still feel it. It's dried across his nipple, itching and pulling at the skin, flaky and unpleasant under his shirt, which is utterly ruined now. He wants to lift a hand and scratch his throat but he also doesn't want to draw attention to himself. The top of his jeans feels hard and dry, stained through the material and everything itches. 

It's awful and he hates it. He's also painfully hard, leg jiggling in steady movements like he can't keep still.

"Would you like to go home?" Aziraphale asks him finally, teacup still held in his perfectly manicured hands.

"Yesss," Crowley hisses, though if he's going to get up he'll need to miracle away his erection, and maybe also the steady, uncomfortable throbbing in his gut every time his clothes shift against his disgusting skin.

"If you like," Aziraphale starts. "If you like I will take you home, and if you ask me very nicely I will strip your trousers down and bend you over my desk, and I will reward you for doing exactly as I asked."

Crowley exhales a breath, and gives a long, flexing swallow. 

Aziraphale is watching him, watching him until he nods, two jerky movements, followed by a low, cracked noise that perfectly mixes churning embarrassment and desperate arousal.

The angel folds his hands on the table. "And then I will pull your trousers back up over the mess I've left in you, and we will walk back to your flat." 

"Ngk." Crowley feels that like a physical blow, he even sways back a little.

"Once there, you may do anything you like to me," Aziraphale finishes, before lifting his tea and taking an unnecessarily prim sip.

"You don't play fair," Crowley croaks out, whole body a delicious, painful ache. "Satan, you should have warned me before we started this that you were going to make me lose my mind."

"You say that like I'm not utterly ruined every time I look at you," Aziraphale says, over the rim of his cup. "As if I wouldn't do anything you asked of me. There is nothing about you I don't love beyond measure."

Crowley struggles to stop his mouth from doing anything untoward, the heart inside his corporation squeezing uncomfortably hard. At Aziraphale saying that so easily, where _anyone_ could hear it, both of them so messy and so obvious.

"Ugh, fine, yes, but you can pay. I'm in no fit state to be seen, and it's all your fault."

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Art Of Taking Requests](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24927928) by [Djapchan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djapchan/pseuds/Djapchan)




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